


everybody's waiting for the messiah

by etherealanything



Category: The Gilded Wolves Series - Roshani Chokshi
Genre: Comfort, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23910220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealanything/pseuds/etherealanything
Summary: Laila is her polar opposite: the one who always has the right words, a coy glance, the perfect lie. To see her flustered is unnerving, an unbalancing of the natural order.
Relationships: Laila/Zofia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	everybody's waiting for the messiah

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'jerusalem' by dan bern  
> characters aren't mine (but i wish they were so i could write a canon laila/zofia/hypnos ending)
> 
> tw: non-graphically described panic attacks

Zofia follows the trail of cookies into Laila’s bedroom, puzzled. She’s being lured, is sure of it, but there’s no reason why she should need to be in Laila’s room. As far as she’s aware, Severín is still scouting his next acquisition. _Their_ next acquisition, she corrects herself. She takes pride in the fact that her inventions are often central to the plan.

Laila is sitting on her bed when Zofia enters, still eating the cookie that was placed right outside the door. She’s wearing an emerald evening dress with a sequined bodice that glitters in the soft light. It’s purely decorative, a far cry from the functional clothing that Zofia prefers, but she finds herself unable to look away.

She’s never been to see L’Enigme, never wanted to. Clubs, in her limited experience, are dark and cramped and full of smoke. But she imagines that the people who come away talking of nothing but Laila, the people who follow her every scandal with bated breath, must feel something like this. Zofia walks towards Laila, as if an unseen magnet is drawing her in.

Laila reaches out and brings Zofia’s hands into her lap. The dress is made of silk, and Zofia shivers at the feel of it under her hands. It’s all smoothness, no rough edges or asymmetrical hems to make her anxious. They’re standing very close now, so close that Zofia can feel Laila’s breath warm against her forehead. She counts the sequins on Laila’s bodice, not understanding why she doesn’t pull away. She’s usually uncomfortable being this close to someone, but she finds herself wanting to stay, almost pressed flush against Laila. Laila, whose heart is currently beating several times faster than any other that Zofia has heard. 

“ _What is she nervous about?”_ Zofia wonders. She is the awkward one, never anticipating what other people want. Laila is her polar opposite: the one who always has the right words, a coy glance, the perfect lie. To see her flustered is unnerving, an unbalancing of the natural order.

Laila releases her hands before placing them on Zofia’s waist. She squirms a little but waits, still wanting to figure out what Laila is thinking. 

“Can I kiss you?” Laila says. _Oh._ Zofia steps back, letting Laila’s hands fall away from her and immediately missing the way they had grounded her. Laila’s face is full of want, but it doesn’t scare Zofia, not like when she can feel the glances of men as she walks through the lobby of L’Eden. No, Laila is always caring; and although Zofia has seen the strange games that Laila and Severin play, she trusts Laila to understand that Zofia takes words and actions as they are given to her. She trusts that Laila’s request has no hidden meaning, no second layer.

Zofia swallows. Her throat is very dry and she wishes that she had something Forged to hold onto, to remind herself of her strength. She doesn’t know what people are supposed to say in these kinds of situations, but she knows what she wants to say. “Yes.”

Laila leans in, and the first thing that Zofia processes is that Laila’s lips are very soft. Zofia has perpetually chapped lips, another casualty of her laser-sharp focus on work, but Laila’s are velvety, the deep red lipstick she’s wearing giving them a waxy taste.

Laila doesn’t kiss her too deeply, which Zofia appreciates. When she’s kissed people before, she had enjoyed it up until the moment they tried to slip their tongue in her mouth. She couldn’t understand why that was seen as romantic, trying to be so close as to become one. 

Instead, Laila presses feather-light kisses to Zofia’s skin, first to her forehead, then both cheeks, traveling down her face to her shoulders, each kiss a caress. Zofia realizes that Laila is creating a pattern, zig-zagging so that the kisses are perfectly symmetrical.

Zofia doesn’t find beauty in human faces. They are confusing, their expressions indecipherable. (Except for disgust. She knows disgust.) Add to that the fact that most don’t follow the ratios and proportions she treasures and it’s easy to understand why she seeks beauty in patterns and math. But Laila has turned her into an emblem of what she loves and as she gazes at Laila, she begins to see patterns as well. 

Her eyes, evenly spaced, are full of warmth and kindness but not pity. Laila trails a hand down Zofia’s body and she studies the curve of Laila’s fingers, tracing invisible lines through knuckles and fingertips, forming perfect swirls. Even as she notices imperfections, she finds them just as beautiful. When Laila smiles, one corner of her lip raises slightly higher, and Zofia feels the sudden urge to place a kiss there. She does. Laila looks surprised, in a good way, a way that says “what you did was unexpected but I enjoyed it.” Zofia is secretly very pleased.

Her breath catches as Laila pulls the dress over her head in one fluid movement. Although it is quick, there is an artfulness to her disrobing. Zofia’s mother had once told her about panthers, graceful and sleek and every fiber of them imbued with sheer power. This is the only comparison that feels apt, though Laila is not a wild beast.

Laila is looking at her now, so Zofia takes off her work smock and turns around to allow Laila to help unbutton her dress. She’s never seen the necessity of false modesty. She may not be comfortable around other people, present company excepted, but she’s not uncomfortable in her own body. She is simply Zofia, and Laila makes her believe it’s alright to be nothing less and nothing more.

Still, the feeling of bare skin on bare skin proves to be more than Zofia can handle. She panics, despite knowing rationally that there’s nothing to fear. This is what she hates about herself the most, when she no longer makes sense to herself. Being unable to function with unexpected sounds and lights is, to Zofia, a logical progression, even if others see it as unusual. But this instinctive flinch, when Laila has been nothing but caring, defies causality.

Before Zofia can even begin to stammer out an excuse for leaving, Laila has noticed her discomfort. She leans away, breaking contact, but motions for Zofia to sit next to her. Zofia does, rubbing the velvety blanket between her fingers.

“Too much?” Laila asks. Zofia nods; the rhythmic back and forth of her fingers is taking the edge off, but she still feels as though the smallest thing could set her off.

“Okay. Do you want to go?” Zofia turns the question over in her head. She knows that she won’t want anything more than tender kisses tonight. But her room is cold and although she loves her laboratory, she can’t deny that it gets lonely, especially between acquisitions. 

She finds her voice this time. “Can I stay?” Laila smiles, and it’s not seductive or all-knowing, but real and honest. 

Laila walks over to her wardrobe and flings the doors open, exposing the dazzling array of clothes. Zofia waits patiently as she searches, although she’s not quite sure what Laila is looking for. Personally, Zofia is hoping it’s another cookie. Laila emerges with a cotton nightgown, which Zofia suspects is the plainest in her collection, although it still has more ruffles than she prefers. Laila extends the dress.

“I thought you’d be more comfortable,” she says. Zofia takes the gown wordlessly. She’s never sure how to thank people. Especially Laila, who seems to make it her mission to care for all of them. When people thank Zofia, she’s supposed to brush it off, even if she worked day in and day out. If that’s the case, Zofia doesn’t see the need to thank anyone at all. Plus, if Zofia thanked Laila for every kindness she’s shown, Zofia’s not sure she’d ever be finished. 

Zofia dresses herself and clambers onto Laila’s bed. It’s soft and luxurious, and she thinks she could spend hours just lying here. It’s a plus, of course, that Laila is currently curled up next to her. She’s opted not to redress, and Zofia admires the svelte lines of her body. Laila pulls Zofia close, gently, careful not to touch her too much.

“This is good,” Zofia says, a response to Laila’s unasked question. She settles herself comfortably under Laila’s chin, never more thankful for her small stature. It isn’t long before their combined heat envelops and soothes her, lulling her into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on tumblr @kateharper


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